Ichor
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: Brown hair, beaten boots, amber eyes turned sooty, an overcoat two months old, and enough secrets to become wealthy terribly quickly. A modern day goddess's search for acceptance, and, if nothing else, blood. (shamelessly inspired by mythology, the backstory no one asked for.)
1. Lavender and Car Exhaust

This is my last work for the Caster Chronicles. I decided to end it on a look into my interpretation of Leah's background. ((I assumed Arelia didn't really talk about the Ravenwoods, so, if that's not canon, keep that in mind.)) There will be plenty of original characters, but I'm working as hard as I can to not make them seem as such. We'll see how long this goes, but I expect to have it finished before the year's end...probably four parts, updated every two weeks.

This is rated M, according to FanFiction standards, for its references to drugs, alcohol, etc. There's not going to be anything explicit; the rating is for 16+, and that's exactly what this is set for.

No spoilers, considering it's all back-story, and it's all based on my imagination.

Disclaimer: all rights to Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl. I'm just messing around with the characters and universe they've built.

* * *

 _Glimmering stars, open windows, and clumsy hands. The dream never dies, and neither shall she._

* * *

She never thought she'd be the type of girl to chase a rumor. Then again, she never thought she'd believe in ghosts, either, but here she was, idly tracing heavy scores in the table. What she remembered of her childhood was fleeting—palms pressed against window sills, killing her neck staring at the stars, carrying back strays from the streets of New Orleans, and sitting on her bed thinking to a wall—but she knew that starry-eyed girl wouldn't recognize her now.

The girl wouldn't recognize the combat boots laced tightly over black skinny jeans. She wouldn't have predicted the t-shirt—she borrowed it from one of her fellow arsonists; it still smelled like ash and gasoline and had her lipstick smeared on its collar—hidden beneath the dark overcoat. She wouldn't have comprehended how her eyes were hearse glass, gleaming and old, new and worn. She wouldn't have understood why her skin was so pale, why this woman didn't share her beauty with the sunlight, why she was frequenting a bar instead in a home, why she was drinking wine instead of sweet tea, why her eyes were draped with light bags.

The girl Leah was ten years ago wouldn't have seen any of it coming. A decade ago, Leah would have still been in that attic room with posters taped to the ceiling. She would have still been in her room, splayed on her bed like a lamb, all limbs and wide eyes. She would have been hoping there was someone out there like her, with eyes like the persimmons her mother loved to bake with, with the same wiry frame she had, with a golden glow to their skin. She would have been thinking of someone older, someone who was athletic, someone whose hands were capable of creating more than just sound from instruments, someone who was interested in languages, had that Latin knack Leah could never find.

She would still have been wishing for someone completely estranged from her, except for those damned eyes.

The music was too loud, she noted, for any sort of recollection. She could feel the bass thrumming beneath her fingers. It was enough to drive a Succubus deaf, enough to distance herself from her thoughts. If she closed her eyes, if the air was slightly more sweet and clear, she could imagine herself younger. She could imagine it was two, three years ago, before she had started any of this, before she started this path to a bar filled with people far darker than she could have imagined, waiting for someone who may or may not show up.

She tipped her glass against her lips; wine stained her lips like pomegranates.

* * *

The first step she takes on her own accord is out the back door, over the fence, and towards the diner down the street. Its owner is a tired man with a wind-scarred face, and he is kind, if nothing else. She sits in the corner booth, third from the counter, and waits until closing, when she helps the owner scrub tables, sweep the floors. The owner flashes his eggshell teeth and mumbles how she has her choice of whatever wasn't sold that day. Her hands eagerly grab for starches, for rolls and twists she knows are baked with care from those knotted fingers.

If the extra loaves of bread placed in the pantry are noticed, her mother doesn't comment.

It becomes her first job, as well. Not that she's looking for one, but there's a cute house in New Orleans that she can make a down payment on, if nothing else, if she keeps this job for a few years. The bread becomes fruit, and the fruit becomes cuts from the tip jar. She gravitates towards the kitchens, washes chipped dishes. The worn man teaches her how to knead dough, how to add oats, nuts, and herbs seamlessly. She fancies him her mentor.

Months drag on, turn to years. Her hands learn how to improve recipes; she pours over the old recipe cards she finds in her mother's closet and learns to make beignets. Her palms grow heavier. Her mason jar fills like the bottom of an hourglass. That hastily scribbled mark near the top of the jar seems more attainable, reachable, even. The customers become more numerous. The owner lets her close the shop, lets her manage the cash register, imagines a baking position for her. He spends his time in his office balancing books he calls ledgers. She doesn't mind. It's fast. It keeps her busy. People begin caring about the only visible employee, asking how she is, sensing her energy like warmth. She learns on her feet, basks in the glow of something she's made flourish, unlike her mother's wisteria.

Eventually, she has her own set of keys, and she slides them onto a keychain next to her '62 Falcon's, the car her Mamma drove once and decided against driving again, the car her Mamma gave her when she turned 18. The mason jar is almost full for the umpteenth time, enough times that Leah has a payment, in the least, and she decides to tell her mother she's moving out over a cup of tea. Unsurprisingly, her Mamma isn't happy, but she is understanding, and Leah is an adult, if nothing else. Leah plans to leave within the month, spends the night drafting a script for her call to the city.

The day after, the owner offers to take her on an excursion, to those places he disappears to, those places that leave her having to close that diner on the edge of town. She tells her mother there's a meeting at work, that ledgers need to be balanced, and her old man needs help, after all. Her Mamma, Arelia, glances at her fleetingly, tells her to be safe.

Instead, she sits on the passenger side of a rugged Ford. He smokes his cigarettes and lets her place her feet on the dashboard. She lets him call her Annie. He stops outside of a small building she's never seen. Closed, but anything of consequence would be at this hour, she reasons. While the man smokes through the rest of his cigarette, she observes the scenery, takes note of the man thirty feet from them, leaning against the shadow of a street lamp, the way he favors his left leg, the tilt of his shoulders.

He grumbles. The heavy metal door is thrown wide, caught, and slammed closed. She sits in the musty, damp Ford and watches the exchange with flummoxed eyes. Her man, the one who taught her everything she knows concerning food, everything her mother rarely has time for, gesticulates vibrantly. The form he speaks to is dark, someone hiding behind the brim of a hat and intimidation. In her periphery, she can see the other man still on the edge of the pooling light. Her man's lips tighten. There's a slip. The air runs cold. The man flirting with the light is gone, the car door opens beneath her hands, and her feet take her to them before she can think otherwise.

Her man glances at her, her hands shoved in the coat her mother gave her, her eyes bright in the darkness. "Annie," he rasps. She smiles. "Annie, this is..."

"Formal business, girl." Her eyes comb over the form. "Run on home, now, before you get yourself hurt."

"Who's your friend?" Remey, her man, shoots a glance at her, a reprimand.

"I'm alone."

"The man, the one behind that corner," she starts, staring past the man opposite of her. "His shoulder is hurt." The man closest to her, all hat and grimness, stares with his gold eyes. "Blunt trauma on his right side." She meets his gaze. "Significant enough to need medical attention, don't you think?"

"Hanna," Remey's voice is strained, bitter. The man in the hat cuts him off with his drawl.

"Well, well, Remey, you found yourself a damn smart child." Hanna straightens his posture, stands taller. Leah adjusts accordingly. "Do you happen to know who we are, girl?"

"Casters," she supplies. Hanna chuckles lowly.

"Something like that. How would you like a better job than old Remey's paying you for?" His lips tug into a smirk. "What does he have you do, wait tables?"

"I bake."

"Charming." Hanna exhales. Leah can feel Remey trembling beside her. "Two weeks on the payment, Remey." Hanna's gold eyes haven't left hers. "Don't be late, girl."

Leah can't help feeling satisfied when she clamors into Remey's Ford. Remey is tetchy—his fingers fumble lighting another cigarette—and he doesn't move the truck until his hands stop shaking and the cigarette is all but ashes. "It could have gone worse," she mutters.

The sound that escapes him isn't what she expects. It's a laugh, she's sure of it, but it's a laugh she hasn't heard before, a disbelieving, shock of a snicker. Her man shakes from the force of it; the Ford swerves gently on the darkened, empty highway. "Annie, you idiot girl," he bites. His teeth dig into his bottom lip. "Hanna...he's not like us."

"He has eyes like us," she persists, even though her heart is knotted in her chest.

"That's where it ends, Annie. He...he does business, you know, in the Tunnels." Her brow furrows. "Drugs, hitmen..." he fades off. "He's not a nice man, Annie."

Suddenly, it's too humid. The cigarette smoke is cloying in her lungs, not rebellious anymore. She blows air through her teeth. "What if we don't come back, next time?"

"He'll find us. Well." His lips spread in some parody of a smile. "He'll find you." He shakes his head. "You couldn't have stayed in the truck—"

"You were in trouble." The words come out quickly. "He was going to hurt you. You didn't see that man, the one with the limp. What would you have done? Two against one? Even I know that's not an fair fight, Remey."

"And adding a child makes it _so_ much better." Remey's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "We're coming back, Annie." His eyes tighten as though he's smiling; Leah can't look away to confirm the fact. Leah swallows.

Two weeks rush past Leah like river water through her fingers. Every day, she goes to the diner, and everything she touches feels too rough, too fragile. She scrubs tabletops until she can see her reflection in the chipped laminate, until her palms are raw. She works better than she has before, always dizzy, always furiously sweeping into the dining area with long, purposeful strides. No one asks her how she is, and Leah doesn't mind. She fancies herself intimidating.

When she goes home every night, she sits on her bed, and she slips off the flats she's worn for work, and she unties her hair from its knotted updo—hair in the food was still a transgression, no matter how delicious the dish was—she thinks of someone like her. She looks at those posters she's changed with her fledgling casting skills, the way the constellations twinkle only slightly too brightly, the way the words and images flicker with her breaths. They would have darker hair, most likely. Mamma's was black, was certainly darker than Leah's, and Leah couldn't imagine any sibling having hair lighter than hers. They would be a few inches taller than her mother, not as tall as Leah, certainly. They would be athletic—as Mamma assured her most Cubi were—and, of course, they would have the eyes like pyres, the family curse. They would be able to play piano, be able to take care of plants.

The night before the payment's due, she debates screaming into a pillow. Remey wouldn't give her an idea of what was owed, wouldn't let her even ask about it, before hours, after hours, and Leah can't begrudge him, because she doesn't _want_ to know. She wants to run. She wants to leave New Orleans behind—it's a big city, after all, and a girl could get lost in there—wants to forget she ever met Hanna, wants to forget she ever learned to bake. There's a bus she could take at six the next morning, and all her possessions could fit in the duffel bag in the top shelf of her closet, and her mother would be absolutely devastated, but at least her daughter wouldn't be dead. Instead, she stands a foot from the bed, stares out the cracked window. She tries thinking again about someone like her and decides they wouldn't be anything like her at all.

They wouldn't have followed Remey to a shut down building in the slums of New Orleans, where they couldn't breathe, where they damned themselves to the consequences they brought upon themselves.

She debates screaming into a pillow. Instead, she throws open her window, presses against the window sill with her palms until she can feel the wood digging through her skin.

They wouldn't run away, certainly. She shudders a sigh, opens her mouth as though words could fix what she's broken in her hubris. And she nods, once, tells herself this is her fault, this is her design, this is her story, and no amount of tears or cursing will change it.

(She won't deny, later, that when six rolls around, her gut tightens, and she can feel her future cement itself in her mind.)

Dawn rises over the horizon, and Leah feels like its her execution. She gives the same daily, fleeting embrace to her Mamma, fakes a smile and doesn't fake her wave goodbye. She walks carefully to her Falcon, pretends it doesn't feel like an ending. When she pulls up to the familiar diner, she breathes a curse and leaves her truck in the farthest corner of the grassy-lawn-turned-parking-lot that she is capable of. The walk to the diner calms her nerves, if only slightly.

By noon, she almost forgets that the second hand is ticking towards her consequence.

By nine, the sun is beneath the horizon, and the stars are gleaming, and Leah's shaking, bouncing her leg, bobbing on her toes. She hasn't seen Remey, but she can see his old Ford next to her Falcon, and her stomach knots. Then, he comes in with his slicked back hair, with his stern ember gaze, a frown tugging on his lips, and she sputters out a greeting. He nods in acknowledgement. "Annie," he says, and Leah inclines her head, entertains the idea of gesturing a curtsy before crushing it. He swipes his pack of cigarettes from the counter, throws his keys into the air only to catch them.

She spends the ride into the city seeing how many constellations she can name.

Remey smokes through a cigarette and drives his old Ford steadily down the two lane highway.

By the time he pulls in front of a decrepit building with its front windows gaping, jagged, Leah's identified at least four constellations and five marker stars, and Remey's half-way through his second cigarette. There's no ominous street lamp to add atmosphere, and there's no limping henchman thirty or so feet away. She takes note of Remey, instead, of his steady hands, of the indifference that exudes from him, not in waves, but in calculated pulses. Leah doesn't know if she's seen him care less about a situation, and, somehow, it's worse than the anger she expected. He sighs a cloud of smoke, taps the cigarette on the Ford's rolled down window. "When Hanna arrives," he starts, slowly. "I want you to take this truck and drive." He takes a long drag from his cigarette; his shoulders slump. "Drive as far as you can without crashing it. There's a can of gasoline in the bed. If you think you need to burn it, Annie, burn it." His lips move for a second without words. His knotted hands contract around the steering wheel. "Don't come back. Don't you dare come back."

"Remey—" He chuckles.

"It's Charles, Annie." He hesitates. "Charles Milton Remey." The information goes through her head quickly; she'll remember it years from now, but, in that moment, there are more important things to remember.

"I can't leave you here with Hanna. What do you think he's going to do?" Remey's listless gold eyes stare forward. Leah shakes her head. "Will I have to open on Sunday?"

"You'll open on Sunday, if you want." He shrugs. "Or don't. There are better things you can do with your time." He takes a breath. "It's yours, now."

"You can still take care of it, Charles." The name rolls of her tongue haphazardly. "Don't...you're not going to be..." He meets her gaze. "You can't believe, surely..."

He mutters something under his breath, hops out of the truck as well as he can. Leah follows, shoves her hands into her pockets. His cigarette is dropped, smashed with a quick movement. The air is too hot around her, too close. He squares his shoulders, tugs on his shirt, smooths it carefully. He looks at Leah, inclines his head, tosses his keys at her. He disappears into the building. Leah cannot deny her flats slide on the white rock in an attempt to head after him, cannot deny she would have followed him until she hears a gunshot, until she jams the keys into the ignition and drives off.

She's halfway home when she thinks it will hit her, drown her. She's halfway home, and her constellations are still there, brighter, now, and suddenly it's too bright, too quiet, the thrum of a truck and the pounding of adrenaline. She fumbles with the radio, glances in the rearview too many times to count only to see an empty highway, a few streetlamps. She drives carefully, her knees pressed against the steering column, the seat not adjusted to her height, her throat dry. She doesn't think about what just happened. She doesn't think about how she didn't stop him. She drives, keeps the speedometer at a gentle 50, and focuses on breathing.

She debates burning the car on the side of the road.

Instead, she waits until she pulls into the deadened parking lot, until the Ford is pulled under the willow in the corner of the lot, and slams her palms into the wheel. She waits until she has her hands on the gas can, until she can smell the sharpness of the gasoline, until she has her lighter in hand.

She thinks of burning the diner to the ground.

Instead, she pockets the lighter with shaking hands. She twists the cap on the gas can and places it behind the driver's seat in her Falcon. She tugs Remey's keychain onto hers, slams her door, drives home in much the same manner. Her Mamma is asleep—Leah's sure of it—or she's at a meeting with Aunt Twyla, or she's divining, working late. Leah still creeps up to her room with her feet arched, with her heels in the air, and reaches her room without much of a problem except for her heavy heart.

That night, she packs her things into the duffel bag she's been contemplating for the last few weeks and leaves it next to her door. She lays in her bed, and she closes her eyes, still atop her blankets, still awake, her hands still trembling.

She doesn't hear her Mamma open the front door, assumes she's asleep.

Around two, she scrawls a note on the back of her last shopping list— _I'm sorry—_ swings the duffel bag over her shoulder, toes on her flats, and disappears to her car.

She drives until she can't see the diner or the house anymore, glances at the envelope of bills on the passenger seat to make sure they're real. That house in New Orleans is a dream, now, just like Remey, just like the diner. When her throat tightens, she pushes the gas harder. She stops at gas stations barely a mile from the highway, keeps away from backroads, buys a pair of sunglasses the first chance she gets. Those become her new accessory, always on her, always covering up her golden eyes. She spends the night in her car, curled up in some parking lot, windows rolled up, doors locked. She knows it won't keep Hanna from finding her, knows if anyone wanted to break in—even a Mortal—they could. Somehow it makes her feel more alive.

That's when she remembers she's eighteen, she's barely an adult, and her mother has no way to contact her. She promises to buy a postcard in the next state she enters, promises to send it to the bayou that is New Orleans. She can't guarantee a stable address, but she can guarantee a note, something to validate she's still alive.

Conveniently, that's also when she remembers she is an adult, never mind the barely. She could get another job, change a few names, start a new life. Or she could find Hanna when she's better suited, when she can actually shoot, can actually fight, and might actually run into her distant family, might hear about her father.

She places her bets on the latter.


	2. Burlap and Tear Stains

Burlap and Wine

* * *

 _Cotton and fond words. She keeps her heart in an ivory cage, but it still manages to feel._

* * *

Leah tells everyone who asks that she's road tripping. Young Leah, hands that have finally stopped shaking, a high ponytail and dark combat boots she found for a few dollars at a roadside sale, isn't living out of her car; she's road tripping. She tells herself this, too, and it's a joke because, in reality, she's running.

She doesn't settle until her Falcon's fuming out of its hood, until there's a decent layer of dirt on its dark paint, on the rusted chrome details. By then, she's left Louisiana, reached Mississippi, and—while she had no intention of stopping in the small city—her Falcon breaks down just outside of Poplarville. It's smaller than New Orleans, closer; the last time she checked, New Orleans had broken a million, and Poplarville was probably crawling towards it's second thousand.

She kicks the car fondly.

Her spot is sitting on the trunk of her Falcon, hand raised in the air, hailing whatever driver that will give her the time of day. People slow down, ask her if she needs help, and she replies that anyone with mechanical knowledge would be grand. A few head towards Hattiesburg, offer to give her a ride. She debates sending them after a mechanic, realizes she doesn't have too much money as it is, that the mechanic would tell her what she already knows, it's shot, and she'd be stuck trying to find the money to pay for a new engine, a new transmission, anything. She waits until the sun is setting to accept, climbs into an old man's truck that reminds Leah of Remey.

They introduce themselves—James Barrett, he says, and Leah responds with the first name she can think of, Celeste, like the stars she's so fond of, Celeste Marlow—and drive Leah down some backroad Leah would have had no intention of going down. She prepares herself to defend herself when the man grins. He continues with the introduction. He's a handyman, and he'll fix Leah's car for free, if she works for him for a few weeks. Begrudgingly, she accepts, even though she has no clue what any of the car parts do—she would have fixed it on the side of the road, skipped this entire debacle, had she—and she doesn't want to be stuck in any one place longer than a few days, if necessary. "I'm a little old on the years," he states.

"Uh, yeah," she murmurs, before she can help herself. When she notices what she's done, she blushes to her sunglasses. His grin widens. Leah knows exactly what kind of place this is, where everyone knows each other, everybody knows everyone's business, full of gossiping ladies and bible thumping, there's probably a church potluck every month and one general store within a twenty-mile radius, and it's almost everything Leah can't stand.

Leah isn't in any position to turn him down.

Tuesday afternoon starts, and Leah's elbow deep in car parts when Old Man Barrett—"you want me to call you _Old Man Barrett_?" and apparently the answer is yes—mentions there's a mass Wednesday night. Leah doesn't give it a passing thought, expects that to be her cue to close tomorrow night, until she notices the tone he used, the one her Aunt Twyla was fond of, with the subtle undertone of there not being a choice. She exhales, looks at him behind her sunglasses, all overalls and white button up shirts, and nods once. She knows she'll look insane next to whatever Poplarville has to offer, knows her in her high ponytail, beaten up combat boots, ripped jeans, and oversized t-shirt will look strange next to anyone in a vaguely religious setting.

She follows Old Man Barrett's directions to the church, sits in some church Leah thinks could be a hundred years old. No one sits next to Leah; she makes assumptions, of course, of the people who flock in behind her. And she's tried to make herself presentable—she wore her t-shirt and jeans, even though Old Man Barrett gave her a sundress that his daughter wore, or his wife, Leah didn't ask, said she'd wear it next time—and she curled her hair with a few gentle casts, but she keeps her sunglasses on, even when she slid into the pew. She sits, even though she's seated behind some family with an infant, even though she's next to a loving—too loving—couple, and Leah doesn't know any of their names.

When everyone evacuates to a line, Leah does so hesitantly, follows the assumed action, even if she is confused as to why they're receiving what looks like crackers, even if she doesn't know what is going on. She's confused that she didn't burst into flames once she crossed the threshold. When her turn comes, she meets the man's eyes—green, dull green—and sputters that she doesn't want it. The man shows her how to fold her arms, for next time, and she pretends she's not intrigued. She takes her seat, then, and walks out as soon as they've finished the mass.

She plans on avoiding the man entirely. She doesn't know how long she's in town for, or if she'll even show up at mass on Sunday, but she's happy to give the man a wide, wide berth, for her sake.

Of course, that's not what happens.

She takes her spot beneath a tree, an oak, and listens in on conversations quietly, to the women who hover just outside the church. The man's name is McKinney. He's the preacher's son, or something, because he fills in when no one else can. When he heads towards the parking lot, Leah stops him with a rough call. She doesn't want to touch him, doesn't want him to feel how cold she is.

He spins towards her, and she nearly doesn't remember what she wants. "Are you McKinney? Someone told me you would be able to give me a ride to Old Man Barrett's garage."

"Old Man Barrett," he echoes.

Then, she's horrified, annoyed. "People don't call him Old Man Barrett, do they?"

He ducks his head, laughs. "He likes to mess with foreigners."

Leah curses. "Goddammit," she mutters, and winces, says, "oh, hell, sorry, didn't mean to—what is it, take the lord's name in vain—"

"It's fine," he says, and Leah knows it's not, it's _not_ , "c'mon. I'll give you a lift back to the garage."

That night, Leah decides she'll stay in Poplarville until it's no longer safe. That night, Leah realizes there might be something worth pursuing in Poplarville besides the blueberries. She keeps to herself, mostly, staying in the garage until Barrett pushes her outside—"you need some fresh air, girl"—and, even then, she simply goes out to sit on the front porch. Sometimes she walks into town. Mostly, she stays there in Barrett's odd little house in the backwoods of Poplarville, and she thinks.

She thinks about what needs to be done. She thinks about who she can contact to become involved in the outer workings of the Caster world that won't notify her Mamma, how she'll network herself so she's not swept into the Light, so she knows the darker side of casting. She thinks about how the car might not be the best option. She thinks about how, maybe, even in Poplarville, there might be someone of the casting disposition.

Her sunglasses remain firmly in place, and no one questions her, even when she can hear them whispering about it in their little gossip circles.

She ends up claustrophobic—the people, the air, the constant friendliness—and takes up a second job at the library, sorting books that a few casts deal with easily. She's frugal with her magic, though, and uses it when she knows no one else will notice—casually eliminates a bruise in an apple at the farmer's market with her fingertips, stitches together ripped pages in classics, sorts through books, through car parts, faster, alters thoughts clumsily, turns speculation away, changes her eyes to brown when she can't get away with sunglasses—and she experiments in her room at Barrett's, in the one conference room the library has.

She takes her time, changes vowels, the way syllables roll off her tongue, to see how the results change from her previous knowledge her Mamma gave her. She accidentally patches her boots. The flowers she meant to change colors wither quickly. Barrett is none the wiser, thinks she's amazing at organizing, and Leah's hard-pressed to say otherwise. She pours over literature like she did over her Mamma's recipe cards, over classics, over manuals, learns Latin better than she ever could with a mentor. She remembers her Mamma would be proud, her daughter furthering her education in an abandoned library in a lonely town. She reads about health, about healing, avoids matters of the heart. It's by complete accident she learns how to start fires—accendo, she whispers, and flames dance on her palms—or how to stitch—consarcio, she mutters when she finds it in an aging book, and she finds her shoes laced—or how to roughly heal—velox saluber, she says, confidently, when a bird hits her window, breaks a wing, and flies away as though on new wings. And she continues like that, learning odd little casts she's sure she'll never have to use.

She attends mass whenever Barrett looks at her sternly, which is almost twice a week, every week. She doesn't move from her pew in the last row, is the first to leave, but she stays, watches McKinney with keen, absent eyes. Sometimes she thinks he knows what goes through her head, but there's no way he's one of them, a Caster, and she talks herself out of it before long. Maybe, somewhere in this town of dead ends, there's a Caster, but Leah doubts she'll find them anytime soon.

Barrett gives her his truck, and she sometimes takes it for drives down main street at midnight, when she can't sleep, when insomnia kicks up her nerves.

(She's sure it's something in her blood, something about the family her Mamma never talked to her about, something about how she's a Dark Caster.)

Sometimes she takes it to the church, parks it under the oak, and leans her head against her closed fists, contemplates crying. Sometimes she drives as far as the highway, almost to the Interstate, when she turns around, goes back to Poplarville, because she doesn't want to leave, not yet. Something's missing, she swears, even when she knows it's inane, even when she knows there's nothing there but gossip and ghosts.

On one of those drives, she parks the truck and goes for a run. She runs down the alleyways, down the closed shops, runs into McKinney getting the tar beat out of him. _Even in Poplarville?_ She thinks, and then she looks at him, sighs. _Even in Poplarville._ She lands a solid punch on the offender's jaw, watches them stagger backwards. And McKinney has a black eye, a split brow, and—ouch, Leah thinks—his normally second-hand blazer looks more rough than usual. The form disappears—she wants to say it's a man, but she knows there are others like her—and Leah regards McKinney with a quick glance, sighs.

"Come with me," she says, and McKinney stares at her with those dull, green eyes. She adjusts her footing. "McKinney, come on. I'm parked a few blocks away." He follows behind Leah, about ten paces, and Leah doesn't question it, not when she has to wait a minute in the car for him to climb into the passenger seat, not when she listens to silence for another two minutes, because he's apparently ten paces behind in thought, as well.

She wants to ask what he did, who that person was, wants to find them, but she bites her tongue.

When she pulls into Barrett's, they haven't exchanged any more words. He unties his shoes at the door, Leah doesn't bother, and follows her to the second floor slowly. Leah supposes the kitchen would have worked, as well, but the supplies are upstairs, she reasons. She sits him on her bed, carries her First-Aid kit, sits beside him cross-legged. "Look at me," she mutters, and he obeys—such pretty creatures, she thinks—and she tells him to close his eyes. Velox saluber is on her tongue, bitter, tempting. Instead, she presses alcohol soaked rags to his cuts, lets him wince into her touch— _shh, shh, shh,_ she exhales—lets him curse her in whatever language he wants to, just not verbally. Her fingertips press around his split brow, contemplating, before she shakes her head. "No stitches," he murmurs, and Leah wants to laugh, wants to shoo his hands from hers.

"No stitches," she echoes. He might stare at her too long, might grip her hands too tightly, but Leah finds something curious in the way his heart is beating. Inconsistency, she wants to say, but she shakes it off. "No stitches," she repeats, and this time she means it. His eyes—shards of granular brown and mossy green—seem paler in the lamplight, washed out. She stares for a second, an exhale, then clasps the kit shut. "Your shirt is ruined."

"Surely..."

Leah nods once, assesses the damage. A few crimson stains where the blood dripped, a few tears. Nothing a steady hand and a sweater couldn't fix, she's sure. "Stay the night," she says. He blushes unevenly, and Leah swears it's not beautiful, it's not, but she can't deny the burst of fondness it coerces.

"I..."

"Stay," she repeats. She pats the bed, stands, grabs the kit. "You need the bed more than I do, and the Old Man has a surprisingly comfortable couch." She glances at the room, the haphazard organization, Latin books stacked, open, ancient histories teetering towards the open, screened window. Tonight, her blood is hot, energy pulsing through her. She almost wants to ask McKinney what he's thinking, see if he hasn't bashed his head or something, but that would require a decent grip on her words, and she doesn't trust herself, not until the words are off her tongue. "Even better, I have some reading I have to catch up on."

McKinney doesn't move from his spot, frozen on the bed, a white button up—as all men seem to wear around here—and a slate blazer, stoic, a bit roughed up. Leah resists the urge to calm his hair with her hands. His mouth is still open, as though he's trying to refuse, but he's not speaking. Leah rolls her eyes, plops the kit on the table near the door, bends so she's at his eye-level. "People around here are going to talk, aren't they?" The barest flicker downwards, upwards. Her lips pull in a grin. "I'm not going to steal your virtue in the middle of the night, McKinney." She gently punches his shoulder.

She takes the chair and reads with little ambition, focuses on his breathing, on his movements, how he eventually lays down, on top of the blankets, how his breathing levels, his heartbeat calms. When she's sure he's asleep—or resting, at least—she starts studying.

The women at the church are going to talk.

Sometime in the night, she dozes off. She doesn't dream, not anything she'd remember, and she wakes with a jolt. She rubs her eyes, scrawls a note on a torn piece of paper, holes herself in the garage. McKinney is probably the type to wake up at some ungodly hour, she's sure. She sorts parts with quick movements, cleans where its needed. Around six, Barrett checks in on her, nods once, and Leah mirrors the movement before he disappears into the house. Leah practices her Latin.

The door opens, and Leah assumes it's Barrett, casually mentions there's an attractive man in her room—anticipating a hearty laugh, a quip—and there's an embarrassed noise. "Miss..."

"Marlow," she supplies without turning. "Celeste Marlow," she adds, as an afterthought. She inhales slowly. "You're up early."

She hears him shift. "How do I thank you?"

"You don't," she answers easily. "You were hurt. I had the means to help you. There's nothing you need to do to repay that." She shrugs after a moment. "Besides, I needed practice." She sighs, stands, walks to him. The bruises are lighter than they should be—which means her cast did work as it was supposed to—the injuries are healing nicely. She ghosts her fingertips over them. "You're healing remarkably." He grips her wrist in his hand.

"You must have magic hands," he mutters, and Leah's heart leaps. She brushes the comment off with a laugh. "What do I owe you, Miss Marlow?" His voice is low in her ear, and she wants to say everything, wants to say a drink, preferably alcoholic—because she hasn't had the honest chance to and she somehow thinks drinking with McKinney would be something of a life experience—or a kiss, something flirty.

"Take me to the church tonight." His river water eyes flash. "I'll call us even." He lets go of her wrist.

"Church it is, then." Leah flashes a smile and pretends her heart isn't tight in her chest. He chuckles, and Leah shakes her head.

"Come on, McKinney. Let's get you home." The tools are forgotten, then, and swapped for a ride in Barrett's Ford, for country music that grates her ears, or would have, had she been listening. Instead, she listens to the tires on gravel, McKinney's light, deep breathing. He feeds her directions. She swallows them like air. The truck doesn't swerve once. People on the sidewalks wave, and Leah gives a half-hearted wave back to each of them. After a five minute drive, she pulls into a farmhouse's driveway, shoves the shift into park. "There you go, McKinney."

He glances at her, takes her hand, kisses her knuckles, and Leah thinks it's something from a movie, something from a fairytale, except she's her own hero. "Church tonight, Miss Marlow." She nods once.

"Pick me up at nine, McKinney."

She wears the dress Barrett gave her, a white sundress that makes her look tan, makes her look taller, more mature. She pulls her hair in its ponytail, wears a flannel to cover the unfortunate way it makes her chest look, ties the ends in a knot just below her heart. If she cared, she'd say the town was rubbing off on her, but she maintained that she was her own person, and Celeste Marlow was exactly who Leah Valentin would be. The doorbell rings around 8:50, and she dashes down the stairs, aware no matter how fast she moves that Barrett will be there before her. She leaves a kiss on the Old Man's cheek. He says to be back before midnight, as if he's her father, and she shakes her head. Three, she negotiates. He gives, only because McKinney is a churchgoing fellow, and Barrett knows where he lives.

They drink whiskey on the steps of the church. Leah still wears her sunglasses, even though the sun set an hour ago, even though the stars are starting to come out. She points them out to McKinney—there's Lyra, Cygnus, and Ursa Major and Minor, she rambles, lacing her hands with his to point out their trails—while he watches her. She feels breathless.

* * *

It escalates from there.

It escalates, and Jonah lets it happen.

It escalates, and Jonah's nights are in stark contrast to his mornings after he finally drags Celeste Marlow home at four in the morning, after copious conversation and activity that is not at all faithful.

The first night after: Celeste shows up and asks him to show her around ("There has to be something to do around here, and Old Man's not going to show me."), and they end up at the lake where Jonah used to swim at every summer when he was a kid. They share a beer ("It's not going to kill you, McKinney," Celeste says, and it doesn't) and their knees touch, slacks and torn jeans, and Jonah's not anywhere close to the water, but he swears he's drowning.

The morning: Jonah sits in the front row pew and holds the hymnal so tightly he rips a page.

The night: Celeste kisses Jonah in his car in the parking lot behind the church, and has to tell him three separate times to "stop shaking, it's okay, do you want to stop?" ( _Yes, Jonah_ says, _no, I don't know. God, oh, God, please just touch me, okay, please, please._ )

Morning: Jonah pounds hard at his chest during the prayer of confession: _through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault._

Night: Jonah sneaks Celeste into the back room of the church, and they get drunk on communion wine, and Celeste says she's not religious, but when Jonah sinks to his knees, Celeste can't help but wonder if religion has to coexist with divinity.

Morning: Jonah sits in the confessional, swallows hard, says, "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," and he wants and doesn't want to say what his sin is, and then finally chickens out, murmurs, "I have coveted." He's given five hail Mary's as penance, and they ring so hollow it makes his chest ache.

Night: Celeste leaves tomorrow. They're at the lake again, the reflection of the moon rippling distorted on the surface of the water, and it's too quiet, and Celeste leaves tomorrow, and Jonah says he's okay, but he's not, isn't sure he's ever really going to be okay, wants to make the most of the few hours they've got left and wants to push her away all at once. He prays Celeste may decide to stay longer, then immediately feels like he's blasphemed. Jonah wants to ask Celeste to stay, wants to demand, to beg, but the words get stuck and burn his throat raw with shame.

* * *

Leah watches the water, watches the moon, watches the oaks sway in the breeze, and the keys in her pocket feel like an anchor, like freedom. She wants to ask him to come with her. She wants to take her to a city, to somewhere else, but he doesn't know her, doesn't even know her name, doesn't know what she is, what she does, her past, her family. The words are easy to swallow, after that realization.

She still thinks about blurting the words. About how McKinney would tell his family he's going on a road trip, tell anyone who asks, and he won't know for how long. Her car is littered with old receipts and cigarette butts from Remey, and he'd feel more at home in the Falcon than he has in Poplarville the last 23 years. She'd wait until the town was a tiny speck in the rearview before she'd crank up the radio, flash McKinney a blinding smile, throw her head back and sing along, one hand on the steering wheel, one held tight in McKinney's own.

She thinks about telling him. _I'm a Caster._ But the words are too difficult.

She thinks about telling him. _I ran away from home._ But the timing's all wrong.

She lets him kiss her, lets him drive her back to Old Man Barrett's, lets him disappear down the driveway.

In the morning, she leaves a note on the kitchen table— _thanks for everything, Old Man—_ and another in the hymnal in the first row pew— _remember me. xx Leah Valentin—_ even if it is a splurge on her part, leaving a real name, leaving a part of her in the town she had hoped to blow past.

The white dress looks at home folded in the passenger seat.

She presses harder on the gas and watches Celeste Marlow fade away with the dust her tires create.


	3. Blood and Laurel

Blood and Laurel

* * *

 _Knife-edge smiles, shadows that don't disperse, and companions found in unlikely places. The child plays with feathers in the midst of hell._

* * *

She was naive in thinking she could actually escape them, of course. The quick two week jaunt in Poplarville was stupidity, the emotions were idiotic, but, nonetheless, were real. She drove for days on end, rushing towards somewhere she didn't know, stopping only when necessary, only when her stomach ate away at her or she couldn't ignore the growing pain in her abdomen anymore.

She thought she'd make it to some big city before they got her.

She thought she'd start up some life in an apartment, she'd have potted plants, and she'd disappear someday with the wind, a girl who never existed, a name crossed out with one firm stroke. No one would miss her in that life. No one would even know her name. She'd keep a list of addresses in her notebook, Remey's diner, her mother's house, Barrett's, Jonah's place, perhaps some others she hasn't met yet.

Leah never thought they'd get her in a gas station.

Leah never thought they'd follow her that far, three states away.

The Falcon was parked outside; she'd run in for a quick stop, to grab a bag of trail mix, a bottle of water. She was checking out, sure that the only other people in the station were civilians like she was, normal passerby people looking for something that wasn't here. The cashier glanced at her, flashed a toothy smile, and Leah was hard-pressed to _not_ reciprocate when she felt the cast in her ear. She glanced around, apologized, stated it must have been a fly. The cashier nods once; Leah lets her keep the change.

She slid into the Falcon, placed her foot on the brake, and felt fingertips on the back of her neck. "Who—?"

"Uhuhuh," a high voice chastised. "Pull onto the highway." Leah thought of alerting the cashier. "Pull onto the highway or I'll blow both of us sky high." The voice imitated a quiet boom noise. Leah obeyed. They drove for a while in steady silence other than the person's breathing and Leah's near gasps. Then, the fingers pulled away. "Take your fifth exit," they uttered.

Leah did as she was told, passed when she needed to, until she was parked at the bottom of some tunnels to an aqueduct in the heart of a city Leah couldn't navigate out of if she wanted to. The person slid out of the car, dragged Leah out. _This is how it ends._ Part of her wanted to fight, wanted to elbow the woman in the nose with her elbow, wanted to take rushing strides away until she disappeared. Suddenly the Latin phrases she practiced are thick on her tongue.

Now, the woman's fingers are tight in Leah's hair, pressed against her scalp. She could ruin Leah, essentially, and there's nothing Leah can do but breathe, and even that is strained. Pale pink shades are perched on the woman's nose. "Valentin?" The name comes off her tongue so naturally, Leah doesn't react for a sob, then nods. "I'm not going to kill you, sweetheart, but you need to learn how to fight before I take you back." Then, the tight grip in her hair is gone, and she can breathe again. "They'll want to see you punch, at least." Her hit is weak on her jacket. "Come on, pecan," she goads, a tired tone to her voice. "I haven't got all day."

Leah wants to say its a lie—they brought her, damn it, and her time is worth something—but the words stop in her throat, won't stop with just words, will break through a sob. So Leah bites off a Latin phrase, watches the woman's eyes flash as fire sprouts from the ground. She runs her hand through it—Leah wants to warn her, don't burn yourself, but is too tired to voice it—and grins.

"I like it, pecan. It doesn't burn." She keeps her eyes on the flames. "Good enough, I suppose." She opens her palm. "Give me the keys, dear." Leah passes them over quickly; the metal jingles like bells. Her teeth flash. "Get in the car. Boss's going to love you."

Leah follows her into the car, her car, the one that's gotten her here in the first place, the one that took her to the diner, to Poplarville, to love, or what could have been love. She closes her eyes—if anyone is going to be comfortable, it'll be her—and she thinks about how Jonah doesn't know where she is, her mother is probably worried sick, and that old Ford is still parked beneath the willow, collecting sap. She thinks about the beautiful diner, its rustic charm, something Leah wouldn't have noticed had Remey not disappeared, something she wouldn't have thought of had she been still there. The woman drives smoothly. Leah can't complain. If they wanted her dead, they would have done it already, surely.

The car rolls to a stop after some unknown interval of time. The woman grabs her hand, leads her with light footsteps, like a child does an adult, and Leah can't stop the burst of fondness she has for the woman. Even if the woman was leading her to death, as it was, inevitably, she's somewhat content with the way things unfolded. "Come on, Valentin." She follows dutifully—if there's anything she can do right, it's following directions—and they duck into a tight building, all small corridors and quick breaths, and the claustrophobia dials up in her chest. There's an end, she sees, and the woman somehow gets behind her, somehow pushes her through a door into a far larger room where there's a sudden shot of something, a white flash, and Leah throws her hands over her face in defense, clips off a Latin phrase like a bullet—defensus excepio—and a hazy curtain partially covers her, stops the attack's advance. She exhales shakily once the offensive ceases, once her hands are trembling. She blinks, unfolds her arms from blocking, finally sees what the room contains.

A man in front of her, the one that demands attention, is clad in a suit. It's clean cut, all sharp lines and contrasting colors, dark and light. A tie drives down the white button up—completely different, she decides, form the ones she saw in Poplarville—a smirk tugs at his lips. His eyes glint like gold, seem to flash in the light. Dark Casters. Someone behind him claps a rapid beat into the silence, at what may have been Leah's performance. "Well done," the man says with a nod in her direction. "I hear you're on the run?" Leah doesn't respond; her hands are still shaking; her body trembles. "Well...this is certainly a safe place, isn't it, boys?" The woman behind her snorts softly. "And what terrible hosts we would be if we didn't offer our honored guest a place to call hers." There's a low clamor of laughter. A small group, certainly. No more than twenty in the room, if Leah had to guess. Dark Casters with low standards or Light Casters with low morals. "What do you say, boys? Should we let her join?"

Leah exhales, schools her rapid breathing. There's a stretch of silence. Then, there's a voice saying yes, a voice Leah's heard before, and the voice comes from the shadows. "She nearly found Hanna." Her mind spins. Nearly. Ironic, she thinks, considering she was running away. Green eyes stare from the shadows towards Leah. "She has a decent hold on her casts."

"Hanna is dead, Genkin," the man in front of her says. His eyes are on her, then. "But your point has merit." He blinks. "You're in, Valentin."

They hand her a set of keys along with her keychain. These are for the apartment, they say. Soon, they'll get her a house, if she's alive long enough. Leah contemplates running away, but knows there's someone in this small crowd who could track her down. She sets up in a small apartment not three miles from the building she was driven to. And she stays there for weeks, for months, with the steady pressure in her chest knowing someone is watching her, observing her purchases, witnessing her comings and goings that she is apt to do.

She takes up a job at the florists down the street, not a block away. The work is mind-numbing, easy. She walks every morning, every evening, from the quaint little shop to her apartment. Cut here, snip there, a ruffle of petals, a few mumbled bouts of a cast to help the flowers last longer, to give someone confidence. She stays on amicable terms with the owner, a Greek immigrant around thirty—Tia Kamber—who has kind eyes, a soft, lilting voice, and brisk movements. Leah earns a steady build-up of money—her first purchase is a set of stupid, touristy postcards from the next city over, and the next is the postage to send one to her Mamma, one to Poplarville with the twin messages of how she's still alive, don't worry, don't chase me—pockets the rest for when those Casters in the abandoned building come to her. She buys foods with long shelf lives, things she could easily drop at the nearest shelter on her way out of town, things she could eat on the road, packets of trail mix, peanuts, energy bars, flats of water, with the occasional splurge on yogurt or fresh fruit. She creates a small excess of medical supplies to add to her Falcon on intervals along with the food, planning to leave as soon as a space is available. She studies her casts whenever possible, learns a few more.

She would have, she edits, when there's a bang, someone tripping into her living area, and a voice curses vehemently. Leah fumbles for a weapon, settles for the first thing she gets her hands on, even though her instincts are yelling at her to cast quickly, to stun them, if nothing else. The door's open; the moonlight's dead with the storm that's blown in. She takes a breath, prepares to strike, when she hears a Spanish curse, and the pieces click together. She leaves the shoe by the counter, on the floor. Two forms, one smaller, one wider, clumsier, are facing each other in her living room.

The smaller of the two, the woman who took her captive, is making animated gestures, rattling off insults like bullets, while the more brutish of the two is holding their arm, a cloth tied haphazardly around their hand. Leah coughs lightly, interrupts the argument before someone gets hit. Eyes that remind Leah of lemon oil glint at her. "Hello, pecan."

"What happened?"

"Havelka missed his shot." Leah's eyes flick between the two of them. She wants to ask who died, wants to ask if that's why there are sirens three blocks down. "Can you fix him?" Leah hesitates.

"I can try," she says. She cancels the cast for her eye color, relents to the sooty gold, and urges the other form, Havelka, to sit on the third or fourth-hand couch in her apartment. They're tall, taller than Leah, and they're hurt, less so than Leah had originally thought. The woman stays close to Leah's side, behind her, just close enough to make Leah nervous but out of Leah's line of sight. "What's your name?"

"Hugo," they answer. Leah glances at their face, at the soft jawline and high brows. She nods once.

"What happened, Hugo?" She works on untying the rags wrapped around Hugo's hand, grimaces once they're free, once the wound is open to the air. A deep laceration carves through the web between his thumb and index finger, severs it. Burns bloom on his palms, rosy and warm, if she had the inclination to touch them.

"There was someone attacking—"

"I killed them, but not before they managed to hit Havelka." Hugo nods once, rigid. Leah blinks, runs her fingertips deftly around the area of injury.

"Have you done anything to prepare the area?" Rinse, rub, anything other than the dirty rags of what could have been a shirt. The silence rings at Leah's ears. She shakes her head. "Look at me, Hugo. I'm going to apply sutures," she catches the wince, the slight shiver, that provokes, "but I need to wash the wound first." She pauses for a breath. "Alcohol, preferably. Do you want the cast?" A breath, a hesitation. The woman behind Leah shifts her weight. Hugo nods. Leah mimics the movement. She mouths the words, the phrases—emundatus—feels Hugo tense beneath her, flinch at the burn. She shushes him softly. She prods gently at the raw skin, reaches for the kit. She threads a needle with clumsy fingers; the stitches are quick and nearly perfectly straight. She keeps her eyes on her work, on patching up Hugo's skin, in and out, steady like her breathing, quick like the patter of rain on the window.

Her woman lurks behind her.

Leah realizes whatever fragile sense of home she's built up in the last month has been shattered. She mentally urges Hugo to say something, anything, to throw the silence akimbo. Between casts, she takes it into her own hands. "What's your name?" Hugo looks at her, startled. The words come out harsh, louder than she's planned.

"Torres," the woman responds simply. The name clips from Leah's tongue on a breath, quiet, mouthed to the almost healed wounds. Leah can feel her fingertips digging into her scalp, curling into the thin hairs at the base of her neck.

"'Nina," Hugo mutters, loud enough for Leah to hear, loud enough Leah braces for Torres's sharp remarks, for a quick movement to silence Hugo.

"Nina," she repeats. Leah swallows a laugh; she ties the thread off with a clean knot. Torres exhales stiffly, shifts her weight again. Hugo flexes his hand experimentally; Leah's eye tightens at the movement in reprimand.

"What do you want me to pay you?" Leah's mouth is open, then, and there's almost a word on her tongue, clamoring behind her teeth. "I can clean pretty well," he states, the words falling like scattered glass. "And...and..."

"Come on, Havelka," Torres says. "The new recruit needs her sleep."

Leah tucks a lock of dark hair behind Hugo's ear. "Come back and I'll see what I have for you." He grins, attempts to push himself up from the couch before realizing his mistake. "You can't use the hand for a while," she says, and Hugo nods once, Torres shakes her head.

"You'll have to help with the numbers, then, Havelka." Torres tugs Hugo forward, towards the door. He sheepishly ducks his head, follows the implied instructions, treads to the hallway. Just before Torres's wiry, sharp form disappears, her shoulders rise in a deep inhale. Exhales. Leah holds her breath. Then, she turns towards Leah, she nods in her direction once, an acknowledgement, albeit curt. Before Leah can comment, she's a part of the shadows.

It builds from there. Casters show up at odd hours with unexplained wounds, and Leah helps them as best as she can with what she has. She doesn't mind much; the insomnia has come back into swing, and Leah doesn't want to spend another night staring at the ceiling, wondering if she's hearing thoughts or going insane. She sews their lacerations, bandages their burns. Occasionally bullets jingle in her sink, stained crimson, little crushed pieces of metal. Once Hugo returns, and she almost boxes his ears before she notices the blood streaming from one side. Too close to an explosion, he states with a boyish shrug, and Leah shakes her head, wraps his head while humming a lullaby her Mamma sang to her, a distant melody she can barely place, but somehow feels appropriate.

It takes everything in her power not to become emotionally involved.

When she receives an address on a blank notecard, slipped into her wallet, she bites her cheek. Tia has given her the week off—you work too hard, she says, when Leah shows up an hour before opening, works on arrangements until nearly two hours past closing—and the food she's rationed is growing startlingly low. She runs her fingers over the notecard's edge, doesn't wince when it causes a small bead of crimson to well on the surface.

She wears the dress Barrett gave her, too feminine, too loose. A flannel is thrown over it, cuffed to her elbows, exposing her forearms. Her combat boots are clunky, a counterbalance. She hopes fervently it's the man with golden eyes, harsh and unyielding, not some stranger. She arrives to a building outside of town, an abandoned mill, perhaps, knocks on the heavy metal door. The man who answers has green eyes like firs, dark and peering. He nods once, allows Leah to enter.

He leads her to a set of stairs that wind beneath the beaten wood floors. She follows, ignores the stares pinned on her body. Her companion doesn't say anything, simply walks on, navigating the labyrinth that digs into the earth. He stops her at a nondescript door, tucked into a corner, with a sudden movement of his arm clipping into her ribs. His knocks are slow, rhythm based. He pauses, closes his eyes, and his thin lips tighten more. He curses lightly, a name Leah doesn't recognize, uttered in a growl, before the door opens. Leah steps into the room; her guide shakes his head, heads towards the end of the hallway.

"Where did Genkin disappear to, now?" The man—Leah assumes he's the leader of this ramshackle establishment—straightens some papers, braces his hands on the edge of the large desk, giving him a predatory form. "Rewriting the ledger, no doubt." He runs a hand through his hair, bares his teeth in a grimace. Then his harsh gold eyes pin on hers. "Hello, young blood." He tilts his head slightly, allows it to fall forward. "You've made a name for yourself around here, certainly." Leah's heel rises. "The _healer_ ," he says lowly, "the briar rose, the siren." The list of epithets are almost bored. "They don't have... _that_ ring to them, does they? It won't strike fear into anyone's heart." He taps his fingers against the desk once, twice. Leah watches him, her mind ticking, wound too tightly. "What do you think of Venin?" He hesitates, eyes still searching. "Reaper." Then, he nods once, pounds his fist against the ornate desk. "The Reaper, it is."

"The Reaper," she repeats.

"Your street name, young blood. Can't have people knowing who you are, and, quite frankly, kid, The Reaper is about as far away from you as I could think." She has half the mind to ask what his name is, to ask what everyone else's is, if every name she's learned is a farce. Then, he taps the table again with his palm, reaches to grab something in a drawer. She stiffens, tenses. Suddenly the door is too far away. He places a revolver on the desk, slides it towards her. "Do you know how to shoot?"

"Why?" The syllable is out of her mouth before she can stop it.

"Subtlety." He watches her; she watches back. "Gunshots mask a lot of what happens between Casters. Can you imagine the surprise on the Mortals faces if they knew what we were?" He shakes his head. "It's easier, as well, when dealing with Mortals. Flash a bit of this, and they'll leave you be." He grabs the gun by the muzzle, hands it to Leah. She pockets it silently. He blinks. "Check in with Genkin before you leave, young blood. He'll have something for you to do." She wants to ask if she'll see them again any time soon, if this is the last she'll know of them until someone shows up in her fire escape or her living room. She turns to leave, pivots on her heels, starts for the door. "Nice dress, young blood. Remember you're with Sanguine, now." She pauses for a second, nearly looks at him again.

When she finds Genkin, he's nose deep in a ledger, scrawling numbers beside old ones which are bisected in various shades of blue. He has glasses on his nose, perched carefully, and his shoulders are tense. Gone is the figure she saw under the lamp post. It hits her, then, that this is her only connection to who she was before she ran away, to New Orleans, to Remey and her Mamma. She breathes a little deeper, clears her throat. Genkin nods once, peers at her without raising his head. "Did he send you?" She nods. He mimics the movement. "Sit down, Valentin." Seeing as this place was in no way ready to be an office, she takes a seat on one of the other desks, shoved against the wall. Genkin grips a glass of clear liquid, sips it carefully, eyes still on her, and Leah can't help but feel powerful. It sickens her. "What is your job, Valentin?"

"Florist," she replies instantly. Genkin raises his thick eyebrows, but obliges in scribbling her title in the margins, next to what Leah assumes is her name. "What's yours?"

"Banker," he says, after a long while. "Hitman, when needed. Occasionally, the hostage. Always the one with connections." He pauses, takes another drink. She assumes it's water, at this point. He takes a breath, grabs a pile of bills confidently. "This is yours, Valentin. Your first payday." She fancies she can hear his heartbeat rampant against his ribs, his blood pulsing hotly beneath his skin.

Genkin pushes the money forward, then glances down Leah's form. "Are you cold?"

"No," she answers honestly, and Genkin hesitates. He raises the packet of bills, waves them. Leah grabs them, places them tucked in her boots, close against her skin. "Are you cold?" Genkin stares.

"I'm burning up," he utters. He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. "How well do you fight?" His green eyes are somehow more stressful than gold, somehow more damning.

"Decently." His eyes flick down her body again. She crosses her arms.

"There will be someone in your apartment before midnight." Genkin swallows, meets Leah's gaze. "Have you heard of the Tunnels?" His eyes glimmer. Leah manages a nod. "It's used by all sorts of Casters, of course, not all of them any sort of good. I need you to meet a contact in Barbados." He pauses for a moment, shakes his head. "Georgia." The lightbulbs flicker. "It will do them some good to leave, to find neutral territory." Leah's lips tighten. He scribbles something quickly onto a sheet of paper, harsh lines and words. "You're not old enough to drink, surely. How about a diner? Somewhere public, so as you aren't directly injured..." His voice is quiet, rambling. "You shouldn't need backup, not immediately; there's a rooftop that anyone with a decent shot could watch from." Leah breathes through her nose, attempts to walk herself out of the building mentally. He tears the paper out suddenly; the rip causes Leah to flinch. Quickly, it's folded in half, passed over the desk with a sense of satisfaction. "Directions," he explains, "as far as I know, they should take you exactly where our contact will be."

Leah nods once, tucks the paper in her pocket. She leaves before Genkin says anything more, before anyone says something to her, asks her a question, comments on her dress. She's never thought of her wreck of a car as a solace before now.

A week later, after she returns from the florists—now, she realizes she should have said nurse in regards to her occupation—she sees a shadow lounging on her couch, twirling a knife that reminds Leah of New Orleans, of streetlamps and humid air. "Hello, pecan."

"Torres." The name is bitter on her tongue.

"Leo said you needed help with your wardrobe." Leo, she thinks, shuffling through names she's been forced to memorize out of hope to survive. "Oh, he'll be disappointed you don't remember him." She sighs. "Dark hair, glasses, green eyes you couldn't miss a mile away," she rattles off the adjectives, bored. The knife glints, spins.

"Genkin."

"Leonid, or something like that." She shrugs. "Point being, you can't go into any situation dressed like that, pecan." Leah's jaw tightens. Suddenly, there's a hand on her scarf, tugging the knot so it digs into Leah's throat. "Bad." Another hand runs down her flannel, pressing harshly. "Decent." Gold eyes fix on her ponytail. "You're too tall for anyone to grab that, pecan, but loose clothing is a death sentence." She stands on Leah's boots, breathes on her neck, hand still grasping tightly. She wasn't wrong, after all. Torres smells like cinnamon, like cloves, like the spices Leah miss and gun smoke. "These won't get you killed, at least." She wraps her hand in the scarf, twirls it around, tight against Leah's neck. Her lemon oil eyes are searing into Leah's. She hesitates a second, steps off Leah's boots. "Come on, pecan. I have a gift for you."

Leah watches Torres prance around her living room, lithe, agile. She doesn't seem real, seems like some apparition, some spirit. Her hair isn't like Leah's, isn't straight and limp, but curls even in its bun, and it glints like a raven's feather. Her skin isn't pallid but exudes warmth. Her movements aren't clumsy, they're confident, as though she's lived in Leah's apartment all her life. Leah supposes it could be some sort of truth, potentially. She can't help the pulse of compassion she feels for Torres.

"Come on," she repeats, her voice edging on anger. Impatience, Leah realizes. She follows Torres into her bedroom as though led by a string. By the time Leah's foot passes the threshold, Torres has flung open the small closet, has shed light on a few new pieces. She rips a jacket into the light, throws it at Leah. "Put it on." Leah obliges. The leather is soft, old. The fit is somewhat off, the sleeves are too short by an inch, the collar is tight around her neck. Torres clicks her tongue. She unties the scarf with nimble fingers.

"Better," Torres obliges. She meets Leah's gaze. "Now, Valentin, we have an affair to attend."

Somehow, Leah expects Georgia. She expects driving for hours to a place that she doesn't know, translating the half-cursive notes that Genkin gave her until she reaches the Tunnels, stumbling through them without any idea of what's down there, whether it's wood or stone, whether it's claustrophobic or stable. She expects Torres to sit in the back seat and keep her fingertips on Leah's neck. She expects a silent radio. She expects fatigue, uncomfortably heavy eyelids. She expects trembling hands and a smile that she can't mirror.

She doesn't ever think that Torres is going to take the passenger seat until she does, until her sneakers are placed on the dashboard, until she's tugging on a beanie to obscure her hair and muttering quick phrases to make her cheeks more hollow, to add the idea of facial hair to her jawline, to fill in her eyebrows. When Leah does, it's quiet. She wonders why Torres needs to be in disguise as she turns on the car. She wonders why Torres helped her, if it was all from Genkin. And then she tells Leah to turn left, further into the empty streets instead of towards the highway, and Leah gives in, only because Torres's hands _are_ shaking and, damn it, she's pushed on sunglasses like Leah has, but Leah's sure her eyes are terrified.

The drive isn't silent. Leah blabbers quiet little nothings, stories she remembers her mother telling her, little myths involving sacrifice, heroes, and she doesn't stop until Torres's lips are tugged into a smirk. Torres provides directions that contradict the paper. Leah doesn't question it. She pulls into a parking lot that isn't empty, walks down an alley with Torres in front of her, pulling her by her hand. Then, Torres stops. She places Leah's hand on a ladder. "Climb, pecan."

"Where are you going?"

"I have a job to do." Torres pulls at the hem of her jacket. "You know, we don't run this for the character building." She pats Leah's hand. "Climb. All you have to do is be here when everything happens. I'll find you."

"How?"

"I'll find you," Torres repeats.

She's scared, and Leah can feel it pulsing in her veins. She wants to hear her thoughts, wants to bury her nose in the pulsing vein beneath Torres's skin. She nods once. She swallows. "Come back."

"I will, pecan." Then Torres is a part of the shadows, her head's ducked low, her hands are shoved in her jacket pockets.

The rungs are cold beneath Leah's hands.

Her fist hits the brick hard enough to bruise.

She sits with her back against a wall, focuses on breathing. She murmurs casts, watches shadows twist and curl, plays with little sparks on her fingertips. She thinks of leaving, of going to her car and driving away as fast as she can, of grabbing what she can from home and leaving a note at Tia's store, repeating Poplarville again. The stars glimmer above her, both Mortal and Caster, both distant and complex.

There's a gunshot, an explosion that hits Leah like an earthquake, a distant cry of sirens. Leah grabs for her gun, trips on her way to the ladder. Her ankles protest the drop she makes. She gasps. Darkness shrouds around her. She can hear their heartbeats, their footsteps, roaring against her ears, and then there are people pushing against her, and her arms are around them, pressing them close to the brick wall in the tight alley, a cast on her breath. She can taste their blood, feel their pulses beneath their thin layers of skin. She doesn't breathe. She doesn't think about who it is, how there's a beanie against her neck and a blazer on her shoulder, how the latter is exuding warmth like flames and has a rhythm like drums.

A flashlight shines down the alley. The ray wanders closer, flirts with the toe of Leah's boots. Leah closes her eyes. Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, lumber down the alleyway. Leah's lungs burn, and there's something sweet, something metallic in the air, slick on her jacket. Her hands tighten. The footsteps fade, then; a voice calls out that they must have gone, and Leah doesn't distinguish what gender they could have been, doesn't assume, focuses on letting go of the two forms clutched close to her and lowering the cast.

Smudged eyeliner around lemon oil eyes. Green, shaking irises. A smirk. A thin line of stress. "Well done, pecan." Genkin exhales a shaky breath. Leah manages breaths through her mouth. He's pushed into Leah, immediately, and Torres quickly spits out a curt, "he's injured. Fix him."

"I'll drive you home," she says, eventually. Genkin's arm is slung around her shoulders; the three of them stumble to her Falcon together, careful of who sees them, mindful of alleyways. The ride is tense; the radio is punched on as soon as the engine starts, some Spanish music flitting through the speakers tinny and what Leah supposes is distracting, but Leah can hear Genkin's haggard breathing, can see the white fabric he's pressing against his shoulder stain crimson, can hear his heart beating rampant against his ribs, can see the panic in his eyes, can feel the wetness in the air, the pressure against _her_ ribs.

Torres watches her.

Leah pretends she doesn't notice.

After Genkin is on her couch, after bullets are fished out of his shoulder, after her fingertips are _inside him_ , after the remnants are in the sink—crimson, battered pieces of metal—she takes up scrubbing her hands. Sharp, raw skin flares beneath the suds. She can't forget the blood on her hands, the lack of remorse she had for it, how easily she had accepted the fact, how inexplicably happy it made her. Torres is sitting with him, or said she would, and Leah trusts her. She can still hear them, both of them, beyond the hot water rushing down the sink.

When she's proud of the thoroughness of her cleaning, she wipes off her hands, goes to ask if Torres or Genkin have heard anything, if they have some reason for what the hell just happened, or why she's not in rural Georgia meeting with a man from Barbados.

The sight that greets her is stunning.

Torres leans over Genkin, lithe and graceful, inches apart from his body. Her dark curls fall out from the beanie, a mess of relaxed ringlets brush across Genkin's cream button up. Her dark jeans are in stark contrast to his slacks, straddling him, almost. His eyes are closed, for once, as though he can't look at her. His lips are pulled in a smile, or as close to one as Leah's seen, and Torres murmurs to him, things Leah hears in the shell of her ear, until Leah coughs lightly.

An averted gaze for ten seconds gives the pair enough time to separate. Even then, Leah knows they are slow, shameless in their disentanglement. Leah's head spins. How long, she doesn't know, she doesn't want to know, but she asks if they've heard any news, if they have any updates on the status of Sanguine. There's a stretch of silence. Leah sighs, leans against the wall. She asks what the plan is, when they'll regroup. Torres laughs, rough and wild.

"Oh, they'll find us, pecan."

She's right. Of course, she's right. Weeks drag by, months. She goes to check in on Genkin, to examine how he's healing, and walks away with an overcoat that swishes around her ankles, makes her feel like some bounty hunter, formidable. The kingpin leaves notes in flower orders, in code words, and Leah makes bouquets as neat as she can with the way her hands shake, with the anger inside her. Tia doesn't mention the change, if she notices, and Leah is hard-pressed to remember a time when she wasn't so pent up.

Leah is gifted an office across the hall from Genkin. She works more than anyone, and surpasses everyone else in hours worked within a month. She can't sleep. There's something scratching in the back of her head, something itching, and there's a pang of hunger, want, whenever she goes to ask Genkin for help, whenever someone needs patched up, and her stitches are uneven, she's holding back a black beast within her mind, she won't tell them. She keeps tabs on where people are, where kingpin sends them. Leah herself hasn't been sent on missions, on jobs, in weeks. Genkin says it means she's earned her keep. She thinks it's a tether.

Postcards lay on her desk, things she'll send out with the same messages—I'm alive. Don't worry. Don't chase me.—with the same addresses, bought whenever someone leaves on business and sent in odd intervals. Torres is in Portugal, this week. Henry was given a job in Georgia, a follow-up from what Leah should have done. Genkin is across from her, refinancing the ledger, rewriting and redistributing bills.

There's talk. Of course there is. There always is. People say kingpin is going to do something, going to make an enemy. Leah doesn't change her pace. In the mornings, she bundles together flowers. In the evenings, she pounds out inventories, mends those who can't go out. Sometimes she reads in Genkin's office, sprawled out on his chair, and eventually the tension is crackling, eventually she can't deny there's thirst in her. "What happened to Hanna?"

The wire-framed glasses tip from his movement. He blinks. His hand tightens momentarily. "He...well, he died." Leah keeps her stare on him. Genkin sighs. "How do you think we have this power, Valya?"

"Kingpin conned enough people to start a business." The words are thick on her tongue, hesitant.

Genkin's lips twitch in a thin smile, as though he's amused, and he gives her a fatherly look, or what Leah would imagine a fatherly look would be. "No, Valya." His voice is soft. He clears his throat, grabs a ballpoint pen, and a sketches on a notepad. He makes four distinct bars, a pyramid, and meets her gaze. "Now, there are Light Casters," he begins, "like me. They are warm, nearly mortal, and often hold the stigma of witches in the Mortal world." He scrawls the label into the bar. "Above them are the Dark Casters. Nearly everyone here is a Dark Caster: Henry, Tsura, Nils, Lullaya—"

"Torres." His eyes crinkle from the interruption, as though he was anxious.

"Torres," he repeats. "And Hanna. And you, Valya." She nods. "They are better with...well, curses. Your healing is especially advanced considering you're a Dark Caster." He exhales, writes the label in above Light Casters. "And above them, what do you think, Valya?" Her head spins. All she can remember is her Mamma, tired green eyes, and the absence of a father. He pauses, then gives in. "Incubuses." His lip is caught between his teeth as he writes that in. "They are...damned, to put it lightly. Vampires, almost, but not quite immortal." He sighs. "They can Travel—teleport—across the world, but cannot be touched by sunlight. They are strong, stronger than what you think, and fast. They hunt Casters or humans. Their magic, their casts, are potent."

"They found Hanna."

"They took Hanna." His green eyes are on her, then. "Not difficult, of course, given we work underneath them. I'd imagine Hanna's brashness finally drove the Incubuses to frustration." He taps the desk. "Beverley may have forgotten to pay tribute, forgotten to finish some task. They took it out on Hanna." His eyes close for a second. "They sent parts of him. A hand. A tongue. Eyes. An ear." His lips tighten. "Uninspired, honestly, but...it worked."

"How?"

"Torres." He pauses. His pen is left at the desk, his hands folded. "Hanna mentored her. He didn't teach her a damn thing, but he helped her become a more vital member, took her from bumbling pup to volatile wolf within two years." Leah can feel the tightness in her throat. "He gave her to me, to take care of, to help broaden her skills. And when he left, when he disappeared, she showed up one night with a can of gasoline and fire on her lips." He shakes his head. "Lapse in judgement, potentially, but they won't forget our names."

"Who are they?"

Genkin chuckles, as though they couldn't have chosen a worse enemy, as though they've already plotted their deaths perfectly, his lips still in their grin, still grimly optimistic.

"Ravenwood."


End file.
